


I read you for some kind of poem

by it_was_so_human



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-12-31 23:25:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12143391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/it_was_so_human/pseuds/it_was_so_human
Summary: It reminds her that what they have is little, no nothing, more than an arrangement. He is a prince and has all the power in the world. (And she has little more than her ability to stay invisible.)





	1. Chapter 1

They make fun of how she always tries to keep clean. Trying to keep mud from splattering her hem despite sleeping on the floor at night.

They tease her for her love for songs of romance and princes. They snicker at how she stays hidden in the tunnels just to listen to another ballad sung in court. 

Varys even calls her his Little _Lady_ bird. 

The other little birds pull her hair and elbow her for her fanciful ways, say she thinks she's better than them.  

But that's not true. She's knows she’s not better than _anyone_. Most birds have mothers and even fathers. Others have brothers or sisters. 

She has no one.

But the songs about chivalry and love leave her feeling warmer at night and make her raggedy dress feel like beautiful silk. 

\- - - 

But regardless she _is_ good at being a little bird. 

There are _many many_ of them, but she is among the ones that gets to fly around the Red Keep.

She collects whispers and reads secrets from the letters just as Varys taught them. 

And one day she is given a special assignment.

The young bastard (but no-longer bastard) Prince Jon Targaryen is older now. And Varys wants to know his doings.

She needs to spy on his chambers when he retires at night. Hear his whispers, read any letters. 

Though she is proud that she’s been entrusted with such an important duty, she wishes she was told to watch Prince Aegon instead.

(He’s such a _beautiful_ prince, with long blond hair and sharp violet eyes. He looks just like Aemon the Dragonknight. Probably.)  

She shakes her head, who is she to judge anyone? A (no-longer) bastard (now-legitimate) prince is still a million and one ranks above a street rat.

But she is still considering Jon Targaryen’s shortcomings with his serious features and dark curls when she hears him. 

“I know you’re there. I can hear you. Come out,” he calls.

She didn’t realize that children were far harder to spy on than adults.

They notice more. _Listen more._

“Come now, don’t you think I know the best hiding spots in my own chamber?”

_She was found._

Sansa is trembling now; she knows what happens to little birds who make mistakes. 

She slowly unravels her limbs and crawls from the small crook behind the wall.  

And now she is standing in front of the youngest prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Are you one of those little birds?” He sounds more curious than angry.

But her legs are barely holding her up now.  

He's not much older than her own six years, but he's a prince. 

_He will have her head by sunrise.  
_

Her legs give and she falls to her knees, bowing down to him 

"No don't do that.” His voice is firm, before he lets out a sigh. “I don't like being spied on, but at least they sent a pretty one."

She sniffs, the gods were kind in their own cruel way. The realized dream of a prince’s regard, right before she was to die. 

He studies her, and she in turn studies him through lowered eyes.

His clothes are fine and he has the unmistakable air of… of a prince.

(But when she sees him in court he seems to carry himself with a stiffness, as if an intruder in the royal family.) 

“How about we make a deal? I won't tell anyone--and you will extend the same courtesy to me.” 

 _Could that be possible? No. It could not._  

“They're going to know I'm not doing my job,” she whispers. As if it was his concern

He shrugs and points his finger to a corner seat. 

“Sit there, where I can see you. Pretend you're spying.”

She moves to the corner he points at, and instead cautiously lowers herself on to the floor. She stares at her grimy feet, her heart beating _so loudly_.

A few minutes later and she hears him coming toward her, she flinches away expecting pain.

She knows how to defend herself despite her frail size. Little birds learn to use claws—but she cannot attack _a prince._

But instead he places a little yellow cake in front of her.

She knows she should not, but she cannot resist this temptation. (She is always _always_ craving the candied fruit Varys gives them on occasion.) Especially since she’s still not sure whether she is to die or not. 

She takes a hesitant bite. It’s sweet and rich with oh—a pleasant tang.

“Good?”

She nods.

She takes small bites, resisting the desire to gobble it up in one go.

“When you have to spy on me, you can stay here instead. Far more comfortable for both of us. I'll even slip you some secrets.”

\- - -

The next time she is sent to spy on him, she sits quietly in the corner of her chamber.

She refused the chair he offers, so he comes and sits next to her.

A prince, sitting crossed legged on the floor. Next to her. (Were there songs about _this?)_

She can’t answer his questions about why she was sent and what she knows. So he changes his approach.

“Who are your parents?” he demands instead.

This she could be honest about at least.

"I... I don't know. I am an orphan." She frowns, struggling to find the right words. "Sometimes however I feel like I _did_ have parents."

 He laughs at that, "Everyone  _has_   _to_ have parents. We don't drop down from clouds."  

She feels her cheek burn from embarrassment, from frustration. She lives in Flea Bottom, has heard the screams of childbirth her entire life. (She probably knows more about how babes are born than _he_ does.)

Sansa can't explain it, but she has these fuzzy memories. A beautiful woman singing to her and stroking her hair. A dark haired man, strong but gentle, smiling down at her. (She grasps on to them at night. Praying they’re real, but knowing they’re not.)

"It’s just that... I think they loved me." She feels so  _stupid_  when she realizes what she’s said out loud.

He raises his eyebrows as if amused. 

She shrinks back, she feels _tired_ and just _so little_.

"I know, it's just a silly dream." (Her head is always in the clouds, but it’s far better than the filthy ground she walks on.)

He watches her for some time, and she wishes he would just let her be. Go do some princely things.

But then she feels him cup her cheek, gently. 

"Not silly in the slightest. I am sure you were a beloved daughter."

She knows he is teasing, but his voice isn't unkind. 

(And for a moment she believes him.) 

\- - - 

She wants to stay out of his way. As much as is possible at least. 

He’s sitting at his desk, composing letters. So _serious_ for a boy of ten.

She sits in her corner, playing with a small bit of thread and singing very softly to herself.

“That’s a pretty song,” he observes absently. 

She stops singing and focuses more on her stitches, it’s rare she finds any thread to practice with so she has to be careful.

“You don’t have to stop. It’s a pretty song, but I’ve never heard it.”

She swallows. 

“It’s one I hear mothers sing to their children.”

No one’s every sung _to_ Sansa, but she’s sat outside windows listening in. Pretending their gentle voices and sweet words were for her. 

“I wouldn’t know,” he says it with a sad smile. “I don’t have a mother either, little bird.” 

She’s a little bird, but she isn’t _really_ one right this moment. 

“My name… my name is Sansa,” she tells him.

“Okay then, Sansa. Please keep singing.”

-

She hears whispers that there’s growing unease, that the other realms are increasingly _unhappy_.

Robert’s rebellion may have failed, but the unrest it stirred and the legacy of the Mad King remains.

Especially with King Rhaegar growing even further obsessed over his prophecy of three dragon riders.

Sansa knows these concerns have nothing to do with her. (But she does worry just _slightly_ at what it means for Jon.)

\- - -

“I have something for you,” Jon says, arms hidden behind his back before holding up the _most beautiful_ doll she has ever seen. 

“It was one of Princess Rhaenys’, but she's outgrown her toys.”

She reaches eager hands for it, but pulls back quickly. 

They were grimy, unclean, and the doll's silk dress so fine-looking.

She does not deserve it. Didn't want to know what she would have to do to be worthy of such a gift. 

"I... I can't accept that."

She knew why men gave women things. (Even though she was not a woman yet, she knows.)

She heard a maid yell at her daughter that the only reason a boy gave her flowers was to rut between her legs. 

(And that was just a butcher’s apprentice and some wilting blooms. This was a _prince_ and _the most beautiful doll ever_.) 

She didn't want that. She didn't want Jon to hurt her like that. 

“You can accept it. I'm giving it to you.”

She shakes her head furiously but her fingers are itching to feel the soft face and pretty hair.

She's never had a toy before, let alone one so precious. (The little doll was probably worth more than _her life_.)

“Rhaenys would be glad that it was still being loved,” he offers                                                                                        

So she takes it, is too weak. She could love it _so easily_. She grasped it tightly, as if the doll was some kind of a talisman.  

At night, snuggled under her thin bedding, she holds the doll close to her.

And she doesn’t feel so alone.  

\- - - 

“You need to be quiet today. I need to have this memorized this for tomorrow. Maester says that Aegon is further ahead, and my eyes are growing tired.”

He’s grumbling, but Sansa knows he has but a friendly rivalry with his half-brother. They do seem to care for one another.

“I could help you?” she says hesitantly. 

He scoffs and she’s indignant. “I know how to read!”

And he only laughs, “Okay, then  _you_  read this to me.”

She sees what he’s studying and smiles brightly.

“Oh I already know this!” she smiles.

“Why would _you_ know of Northern Houses?”

She doesn’t mean to feel hurt, but the jab reminds her who _she is_ and who he is. (Sometimes she forgets.)

“Birds pick things up. That’s our job.”

And she does—Varys even encourages her to learn the names of all the Lords and their sigils and mottos. 

So she tests him, gently guiding him when he makes a mistake. (He is a prince after all, she means to not forget that again.) 

“My favorite is House Stark. Doesn’t a direwolf sound magnificent?” she says with a smile at one point after they both note how absolutely _terrible_ the sigil for House Bolton’s was.

“There is no more House Stark,” he snaps at her.

Oh.

Varys also encourages her to learn the North’s history.

And she suddenly remembers that his _mother_ was a Stark. And though she died, his King Grandfather had the Stark family called to King’s Landing. And he had them _burned_.

And he then gave Winterfell, their centuries-old home, to a more loyal house.

She wonders if he’s angered by the Starks or if he’s… _saddened_. 

Sometimes Jon Targaryen seems so lonely when she spies him from afar, and she wonders if this is why.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“So am I,” he answers softly. “Please continue.” 

And they review until late at night when she’s feels heavy-eyed and _so very sleepy_.

She wakes up to a delicious unfamiliar warmth.

She stretches lazily before realizing with a start where she was. Still in his chamber, but before daybreak, thank gods. _With velvety soft furs tucked around her._

_\- - -_

“I need you to whisper something to Varys. Tell him that you hear I’m fighting with my brother. That’s I’m upset with him. Fuming in my chamber.”

“But you’re not,” she says _forgetting_. 

He puts a finger under her chin and lifts her head, making her look into his eyes.

“Is this something you can manage or not?” 

“I can manage it.” 

But she hates when he does this. 

It reminds her that what they have is little, no _nothing_ , more than an arrangement. 

He is a prince and has all the power in the world. 

(And she has little more than her ability to stay invisible.)

((But sometimes she _forgets_.)) 

\- - - 

“He’s no direwolf, but It thought it might please you to play with him tonight.”

It’s a little pup. Snow white and cuddly with adorable little yelps. But he would grow up to be a handsome one.

There are dogs a plenty in Flea Bottom, but they’re normally angry and ready to attack. As they should be if they want to survive.

She lets out a laugh as the dog nips at her fingers.

It’s as if Jon is making amends for the past week. (But he has nothing to apologize for, it’s not his fault she _forgets_.)

He kneels down next to her.

“Sansa, we all have our duties, but I have no right to treat you unkindly.” He pauses before continuing, “ _No one_ has the right to do so.” 

 She buries her face in soft puppy fur.

(She doesn’t want to tell him that his greatest unkindnesses are far kinder than how most people treat her.)

\- - -

She hears whispers that he’s to be engaged. A beautiful and charming and witty young lady. The Lannister granddaughter, Myrcella.

But he only shakes his head when she tells him what she’s learned.

(She can’t deny him the secrets she’s learned that are about him.)

“That would never happen. My father does not trust the Lannisters.” 

But he doesn’t sound very certain. She knows he is wary of his father, and growing only more so. 

“I hear she’s very pretty,” she offers, but knows there’s a grudging tone to her voice. (She cannot help it.) 

The two of them will make quite the pair. Like in the songs. A prince and his princess. 

He’s becoming quite… _handsome_ too. His seriousness more appealing on a young man than it was on a child. He also has a genuine smile, attractive dark curls, and bright gray eyes.

(Sometimes she feels a sharp tug that he reminds her of _something_ , but there’s never been anything so good in her life before.)

“You’ll grow up to be pretty too,” he says knowingly. “Don’t fret.”

He says that as if she should be pleased about this. Jon Targaryen might be a prince and sit in on council meetings and learn swordsmanship, but he knows little of reality.

“I don’t _want_ to be pretty.” And it’s the truth. (She knows what happens to pretty girls.) 

“What _do_ you want then?”

So much. More food, a bed, a family to love her and for her to love, and _for you to not forget me_. 

Instead she offers an easier answer.

“Lemon cakes.”

“Well, that I can manage.”

\- - - 

She knew what would happen when she got older.

What type of employ a street rat turned woman could get.

Not even enough respectability to get a job as a scullery maid at the lowest of inns. 

She'd be one of those women men thrust against the wall for pennies.

The thought sends panic through her, she can’t _breathe_ when she starts thinking of it.

She will do anything to avoid that, she saves as many coins as she can, ate even less than the little she could afford. She found discarded needles and thread throughout the castle to practice on.

She was very good with a needle; she knew she was. She just needed a chance. (But who would employ a street rat as a seamstress?) 

She's scared every time she sees her skirt hem is falling higher and higher. 

Little birds are supposed to be  _little._

\- - - 

She's grown tall, still _skinny skinny_. But not so little anymore. 

Varys told her that she would no longer be a bird. But he was sending her somewhere. 

She doesn’t know where, but she knows she’s leaving King’s Landing.

She knows she’s going to miss Jon Targaryen.

He made her feel… as if he cared for her.  

He called her by _her name_.

She didn't mean to start crying when she went to tell him goodbye, but she feels tears prickle the corner of her eyes. 

Her throat hurt and her chest ached. She was dirty and a  _low low lowborn_. 

And she was ashamed to want so much that was not made for her. (She would never see him again and she wants to see him for _forever_.)

"Why are you crying, Sansa?"

_Because I'll never ever see you again._

"I'm being sent away, I'm too big now," she manages.

He steps closer to her.

"Where? Where are you being sent away?" 

"I don't know, but I made you something.” 

She still has the doll, keeps it hidden during the day and close to her at night. 

She wants him to have something from her too. 

She knows he probably doesn't care. 

(Maybe he thought she was just an amusing little street child. 

Maybe he was using her to feed Varys his red herring secrets.)

But she wants him to remember her a little longer.

She pulls out a small square of fabric and hands it to him. She had struggled to find it and used the pennies she'd saved to get the right thread. 

On it was embroidered a direwolf. _The Stark sigil._

He might think it’s treasonous, but she doesn’t think so.

He runs his finger over the delicate threads, creating the wolf’s fur in varying shades of gray, "It's beautiful, Sansa. Thank you,  _thank you_."  

She feels her face redden, but she’s so _pleased_.

He swallows heavily. "Don't, don’t go. You don't have to go. I can keep you here in King's Landing." 

She shakes her head furiously.

Even if Varys would her go, she was almost eleven now and afraid she’s becoming pretty. She sees the way men’s eyes follow her.

She didn't want to know what kind of _work_ he could find her. (Not him. Not her prince.)

"Are you going to be safe?" he finally asks.

The slight panic in his voice is the first time she realizes this… this _friendship_ might mean something to him as well.

So she does her best to act brave, lifts her chin, and says with more confidence than she feels. 

"Of course I am." 

A small fond smile grows on his face. 

He places a firm kiss to her brows. 

“I wouldn’t expect anything less. Goodbye, Sansa.” 

\- - -

“Be brave, Little Ladybird,” Varys says as he walks her past the castle walls.

He hands her into a waiting cart, but not before whispering in her ear.

“I know you’ll miss your cousin, Lady Sansa. But do not worry. _One day you'll be his Queen in the North_.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm like posting this from a flight (no one’s sitting next to me!), so like I blame this on bad circulated air. 
> 
> Ugh. My next story is just going to be an AU where Sansa just wears cozy sweaters and drinks hot chocolate, I swear.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa struggled to stay seated as he entered the solar. ( _Her_ solar.)

Jon Targaryen arrived at Winterfell last night. Demanded to see his betrothed before the wedding. 

She sits up straighter, tilts her chin preparing herself.

And to keep from throwing herself at him. 

A lady would not do such a thing.

(And she’s never embraced him before. And he’s never held her before. Never put an arm around her filthy rags. She can still feel the layers of mud and grim and how he—no— ** _no_**.)

She’s not a little bird anymore.

And then she hears his voice for the first time in over seven years. Familiar and yet not so much.

“I see that you sit on chairs now.”

And when she turns, her eyes finally land on the man that was once the young prince Jon Targaryen—with broader shoulders and darker eyes—she knows.  

He’s not the same boy anymore.

And that is fine, because she’s not the same girl.

\- - -

Since leaving King’s Landing, she was fostered in the homes of Northern Lords—Lords still quietly loyal to the Stark name.

Sansa _Stark_ , the surviving daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark.

Meant for dead, but hidden under the Targaryen’s very noses. 

And anyone who remembered would gasp that the girl looks _just_ like Lady Stark. With high cheekbones, bright blue Tully eyes, and auburn hair.

(And the North always remembers.)

And in Northern homes, some kinder than others, she was taught and trained.

Her innate delicate sensibilities no longer weakness but the tools to finesse herself into a great lady. 

She remade herself, shaped herself under a cloak of grace and armor of control. A beauty with the strength and will of a Northerner.

A lady who never knew hunger or cold or how it felt to have nothing _nothing_. 

But her time as a little bird taught her to watch and listen and notice. (She never had a Master of Arms or a Septa, but she had her ability to pay attention to the world.)

And now she is a lady who knows their Northern ways and their pride and their culture, knows how they think, and has learned to give council, earning their respect and even admiration.

If she was to be used, she would make the best of it. She could hand out food to the children, make sure the women were properly clothed for the winter.    

And all the while there was growing tensions and anger and fear of the cruelty of the Boltons as Wardens of the North.

A desire to shed the demands of King Rhaegar showing himself to have the very same manic of his father.  

Anger over the losses and years of discontent under uneasy Targaryen peace. 

Open rebellions already started in the Vale and the Reach.

The Seven Kingdoms fractioning slowly _slowly_.

There were talks of getting her married off to a Northern son or to try an alliance with a Southorn house.

 But Verys’ plan held firm. Sansa was the banner to retake Winterfell.

And a Jon Targaryen turned Stark the key to an independent kingdom.

\--

He’s in her solar now.

Her solar in Winterfell. The castle she helped reclaim. 

Perhaps he’s going to embrace her.

People don't touch her. At least not in kindly. 

(Street rats don't get comforting embraces. And neither do Little birds or great ladies.

She doesn't remember ever being held. But she can imagine it. And oh how badly she wants it. 

She's so alone. Even in the North among her father's former bannermen or the fierce ladies of House Mormont.

She's always different, always held apart.)

And now Jon gives her a smile—but it’s not the one she remembers

It is empty, not reaching his eyes.

“ _You_ are to be my Lady Wife?" 

His tone is unkind, mocking.  

Winterfell is _hers_. He is the Targaryen son with just enough Stark claims to help strengthen the North.

They rally around _her,_ not a Southron prince despite the loyal armies and ability in command he brings.

And he’s come to marry her claim. _(Not her.)_

“So I am brought here to marry their pawn, the wench planted in my rooms," he continues. 

“I am not a pawn.” 

“Then at worst you are a willing whore, at best a foolish girl. Neither speaks highly of you.”

She might be a pawn. But now she is a well-fed and cared for pawn. One with a warm bed to sleep in at night. A pawn that will be able to protect her people. 

He needs _her_ and she’s beginning to see he does not care for it, these new dynamics. It was easier for him when she had nothing and he could toss her sweets and have her do his bidding.

It’s undoubtedly harder when she’s an equal. Cannot get past the slight to his pride. Talking to a street rat turned bird turned _queen_. 

“You do not have to marry me, your grace. But then you will lose our loyalty and the North may go against your brother.” 

She sees his eyes surveying her, the length of her.

“And I am to believe you are truly the lady to this great house? Not a convenient impersonator?”

She knows she is a Stark. She feels it in her bones. Feels strength from the walls of Winterfell. Feels generations and generations of her blood in the crypts and the Weirwood tree and her people. 

 “The North believes,” she says her voice certain.

“The North didn’t see the skinny dirty nothing of a girl, but I did.”  

That, that _hurt_.

And it was easy. It was so very easy. A wave of humiliation. The familiar feelings of being less than, of being unwanted filth, creep back in _so_ _very_ _easily_.

Maybe… maybe she had hoped deep down that he would be _proud_ of her. For being able to shed her old skin.  That he would tell her she _had_ grown up to be pretty. 

But he still saw the old little girl and she hated him for it.

She should have had… she _tried so hard not to have_ … any expectations, no false hopes.

He may have been the dream she barely dared to hope for, but she always knew she was nothing to him.

(But the confirmation of that _hurts_. He was her _prince_ , but she wasn’t _anyone_ to him. Not really.)

In those dreams however, dreams she dare not admit to herself in the light of day, she imagined that this Sansa, this Sansa clothed in fine silk and furs and scrubbed pink and perfumed with hair elegantly plaited?

 _This_ Sansa he could love. (And she would love him back so very furiously.)

She had heard that his once betrothed was a beautiful and charming girl.

And Sansa knows that she too is now beautiful. Has a remarked on elegance and demeanor (but sometimes she still feels so small, and so alone, her life always in flux, always anticipating the next move, waiting for this, waiting for _him_ , for the moment to unite the North so it could finally be _home_ ). 

His eyes are those of a stranger now. 

Not of _her prince_. (Though he truly never was that, was he. That was just the childish musings of a lonely little girl.)

They are the eyes of a man hardened by loss. A man who went to war against his father, raised arms against his family name. 

But he had no right to be cruel.

“I _am_ Sansa Stark. I _am_ the Lady of Winterfell. I do not need you to believe it for it to be true.” 

(It is a bit of a bluff. She needs him too. Needs the validation his armies will bring. And the North needs him to secure their independence.)

“And to win Winterfell I need to marry the woman who has _lied to me for years_?”

_I cannot have lied about something I did not know._

“Marriages have had worse foundations,” she manages to shrug. 

She could be mistaken, but a small smile plays at the corner of his lips.

“Aye, _that_ is true. Is this marriage alliance suitable to you then?”

She gives him only a nod and he walks out of the room.

And she reminds herself he doesn’t have to love her. He does not have to care. 

(Her father was brave and honorable. Her mother elegant and fiercely loyal. Sansa can be all these things.

She has to be, _she has to._ This the legacy left to her.)

((Sansa never imagined having a legacy. She promises to be worthy of it.))

She had been so very ashamed for wanting him when he wasn’t for her—but he _was and yet it still hurt_.

The romantic songs weren’t written for her however. This much was true. Not even in pretty dresses could change that.

But even Prince Aemon the Dragonknight wasn’t able to save Queen Naerys from dying with a broken heart. 

\- - -

She was married and cloaked. 

And tonight her husband, _her prince_.  **No.** _A stranger_ enters her chamber

She stands tall.

She is not scared. She is strong. She is the Queen in the North. 

_A she-wolf._

Her new husband’s eyes are blazing when he enters, but she holds his gaze. Does not look away. 

She steels herself.

Jon _Stark_ wearing the fur cloak she made for him herself, the Stark sigil she carefully crafted for her old friend and future husband.

His eyes survey the room, and land on her dressing table. She reddens when she realizes what he’s looking at.

She forgot to hide her doll. 

The most beautiful doll in the world still lovingly kept. Her dress cleaned and mended by her own hand over the years.

(She had kept it near for strength, had meant to put it away. Hadn’t felt strong enough to just yet.)  

He is in front of her now.

She prepares herself.

And watches as he drops to his knees.

Jon Stark is _shaking_. She rests a tentative hand on his shoulder. 

He grabs the hand and brings it to his lips. Presses a kiss. And then another. 

_“You’re safe. Thank gods you’re safe.’_

Her breath catches. 

He stands now, still holding her hand. His thumb is stroking it and it feels, _it feels like being found._  

“I never protected you. I never… I let you leave—”

He reaches a hand into his vest and pulls out a scarp of fabric, handing it to her.

It’s frayed on the edges, softened with age and folds, but she would recognize it anywhere. 

The embroidered direwolf. She gave it to him years ago, not knowing it would one day become his sigil. _Theirs._

He… kept it. _He kept it._

“I thought you forgot me,” she whispers, half to herself.

His voice is hoarse.

“No, _never_ … When I was a young boy I dreamed of being the knight who saved you. I would ride into Flea Bottom and whisk you away. But I never did. Never did _anything_.”

He swallows, a brave warrior with a catch in his throat.

“When you were gone… I kept wondering if you were warm, or well fed, or cared for, kept from harm. But I realized those were never thing I guaranteed while you were with me.” 

"I never expected you to," she manages.  

His hands cup her face—as if she is precious and beloved.

“But you should have. I was… _so angry_ when I learned…thought of how you manipulated me for years. But even still I could not stay away. When I was given the choice of this marriage alliance, I could not refuse…”

 _No._ “I have never lied to you. I thought you as... my friend.”   

“I know. I know that now. And if you were a pawn Sansa, I was as much of one and more. A willing one.”

His fingers graze her cheek. “But I promise to be a good and true husband. Your closest friend. I will protect you, our house, and the North.”

“And I will too.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” 

The smile Jon gives her is achingly familiar. It tugs at her heart and she finds herself slowly returning it. 

"You were a lovely girl but _gods_ I never dreamed you would grow up to be so very strong and beautiful and... _mine_."

He rests his forehead against hers, and her senses are overwhelmed by the very feeling of him. It feels lovely. 

“I did not come here to marry Sansa of the House Stark. I came to marry you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, this was such an impossible follow up to write. Gahh. 
> 
> Let's be friends on tumblr! I'm it-was-so-human


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